Your father was often away chasing storms, but he would tell you bedtime stories about the Little Cloud when he could. The Little Cloud could meander around the world, free to glide, rain, rise, or fall whenever or wherever he wished. While you could not fly into the sky with him, curling your small fingers around his vapour trail, you decided that because he could be anywhere, he must be everywhere, so he could always hear you. If he could always hear you, so could Dad. So you resolved to become a wind scribe so he could keep updated with local news.
Being a wind scribe was easy; it was a shy mumble into a blustery day, or an apprehension exclaimed into a fierce gust. If the Little Cloud was everywhere, then he could listen to the words you composed in the robotic echo of a portable fan. Hear them pressed against your throat as you ran in track, and feel them as you pumped your legs on the park swing.
One day you told Dad about being a wind scribe. You explained that the Little Cloud liked hearing your daily reports because sometimes he would dance with you—the light breeze that played with your hair was a sign he wanted to hear more stories. Did he tell Dad all of the stories you passed on through him?
Dad laughed until his eyes leaked two fat tears. You hoped the Little Cloud hadn't heard; he might give your job to someone whose dad took this more seriously. Dad wondered where you had heard this idea, and you explained that the Little Cloud had whispered back to you one day, but that “wind writer” was too dull of a job title, so at school, you had asked Mrs. Vento if you could borrow a thesaurus. Dad laughed again, and you embarrassedly locked yourself in your room and sniffled through the screen of your open window. He never did say if the Little Cloud had told him your stories.
You found it funny that the Little Cloud could go wherever he wished—like Dad did on his business trips—yet he chose to hover over you like the rain clouds in a Charlie Brown cartoon. The Little Cloud did not bring gloom, only patiently collected your stories. You knew you had to be doing your job right because he always lingered nearby.
When Grandma told you that Dad was moving to a bigger city so that he could make more money for us, the Little Cloud cried over you, dedicating a noisy thunderstorm that matched what was going on in your insides. Why did Dad want to be a meteorologist more than be with you?
A few weeks in, Dad told you over the phone that it would take longer than he expected to move you in with him. And the Little Cloud brought a pleasant zephyr that let you know he was there to take your frustrated sighs and smooth away silent sobs.
There was a long stretch of time when you kept it all inside: your thoughts, words, and anger. The Little Cloud drifted nearby, even in the silence, giving you a chance to discover your emerging preteen voice, hoping you would return one day for one of your cozy chats. In especially maddening moments, like when Dad didn’t answer your calls right away, or Becca Rogers spread a rumour at school that you never showered, you would scream out to the Little Cloud. He never sought you out; he knew better than to ask you for the words you were not ready to give.
Dad finally returned, established in his career but half unsure of the young person you had become. One night, over a stony dinner, Dad cautiously reminded you of the Little Cloud and how you had once told him about your important job as a wind scribe. This silly memory brought deep belly laughs for Dad and you, and you ended the night with a lingering hug.
One crisp autumn night, you decided to try. You sent a few practice words as if testing the keys on an old, stiff typewriter. You did not think the Little Cloud could hear you after all this time.
The following day, an icy blast tap-tap-tapped against your door, demanding entry. From the window, you could tell the ground was thick with snow. Some said this signalled a new beginning.
You opened the door and let in an old friend.